


Claim

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 16:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15343488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: Circa 1992. James and Lars finally say enough.





	Claim

**Author's Note:**

> My old archive is getting bombarded with spam accounts, so I'm moving over every story I can from that place to here. It's time for everyone to read what I used to write with these guys.
> 
> This is a reeeeally old smut fic. References to other pairings in the story.

 

Three o'clock in the morning rolls around too fast to James’ liking. He drinks his beer and ignores the Barbies and Kens as best he can. They move in packs, like rabid wolves with manicured, painted claws as hands and bleached, fake fur coats as skin. They stalk their preys for fucking, literally and figuratively, eat and drink their fill. James takes a generous pull from his beer bottle to wash away the queasiness building in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He doesn't belong to this glamorous fake world of dolled-up sluts and two-faced whores. Everything sounds, smells, and feels alien and wrong to him, like every single thing here is a violation of his dignity and flesh. These are the people he abhorred as a teen, and still does even now.   
White-tooth grins with martini breath. Full blood red lips with cigarettes slipped in between. Sequin flashy dresses with big, silicone chests. This silver-and-gold enchanted disease permeates absolutely everything.   
  
All James wants to do is bury in drink, in the shadows, in the world he knows best, and tell these people wanting to basically suck his cock because of his fucking name to piss the  _fuck_  off.   
  
The flash of a white jacket catches his attention from his corner of the bustling room, and James is sharply reminded of why he is still here and why he doesn't leave.  
  
From where James stands he can see the top of Lars’ head, the long amber hair whipping everywhere — faces, people, drinks. Callused hands smooth with aloe sway in the air, onto shoulders. The accented voice overpowers the annoyingly loud PA system when he laughs at a joke, snorts at a stupid question. He'd rather hear Lars sing than listen to this fucking Runs and Poses song over and over again.   
  
Lars comes into his view when two people move to the side. He steps towards him, then ten more swarm in James’ direction like a family of fucking locusts. He puts on his best scowl to make them run the other way. The sight of little high-heeled poodles and their male toy dog counterparts bolting away in fear amuses the hell out of him. But the blur of a white jacket catches his attention again, and a twinge of guilt sobers him up when Lars glares at him.   
  
" _James._ " The stern tone conjures the image of the Dane in an apron and a rolling pin. James smirks.   
  
Lars’ face sours. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up. It's staring contest number whatever in the whatever number of years being together, but James doesn't care. He takes a pull from his beer bottle completely bored, unwilling to play along. It's not worth it.   
  
He watches Lars throw his hands up in the air for the umpteenth time tonight, but not in elation or happiness. With strength James is used to, Lars drags him by the collar of his black shirt somewhere private. He doesn't care where he's taken. The lull of the third beer bottle erases his mind and his feelings. He's happily drunk, lost in a stupor of nothing.   
  
They end up in some ornate penthouse-like room, littered with mirrors and lights and expensive cologne. Half-smoked cigars and bunted cigarettes scatter litter the floor and the furniture. Alcohol stains the wall, the window, the television set. It's the typical Hollywood setting.  
  
He's yanked hard and shoved on some half-made bed. The beer bottle slips out of his weak hand, spilling beer on the carpet, and James forgets the loss. He grunts with effort to pull himself up, and sinks forward onto his knees for balance when he glances up.   
  
The telling blush on Lars’ cheeks reassures James he's not the only one fucked up tonight. The fire behind those green hues tells another story all together. But he doesn't care. He smiles like an innocent up at Lars, like he truly wishes he was – like he wishes Lars could be.   
  
"I told you not to fucking follow me here," Lars snaps. "But you never fucking listen to me."  
  
He tilts his head. "Yeah. You don't either."  
  
"Don't give me that bullshit, Hetfield. It's over and done with. I've already spoken my peace, and so have you. We're agreeing to disagree on this. We're done, okay? Fucking done."  
  
James shrugs. "Sure, okay."  
  
"Liar," Lars hisses. "Stop being a stubborn fuck."  
  
"I'm not. I'm letting you win."  
  
Lars scoffs. "You don't let people win. You let them think they win, and once their defenses are down, then you go in for the kill. You don't know how to play nice, let alone fair."  
  
 _No babe, that would be you._  "So why are you bothering me then? I was enjoying my beer, you were enjoying other people. Same old, same old."  
  
Lars throws his hands up. "I told you to stop with the  _bullshit!_ "   
  
He blinks. "I'm not bullshitting you, Lars."  
  
"Bullshit!"  
  
"Why are you bothering me?"  
  
"Stop it!"  
  
"Stop what? I told you I wasn't—"  
  
"Goddamnit James!"  
  
"I'm not bullshitting you."  
  
"Well I'm calling it!"  
  
He shrugs again. "Suit yourself."  
  
Behind pursed lips, James hears a muffled scream, right from the pit of Lars’ stomach. He watches Lars turn on his heeled black boot and stomp over to a corner of the room.   
  
James looks down and toes the empty beer bottle with his boot. The bottle rolls away.   
  
Lars kicks it to the side as he comes back, standing in front of James. He runs a hand through his long hair, averting his attention elsewhere.   
  
"Why you always gotta be a dick about this?"  
  
"I'm not," James whispers.  
  
Lars slips a hand down his face. "Seriously. Stop it."  
  
"I'm not doing anything."  
  
"Okay then, fine. If you're not doing anything, then why are you here?"  
  
James glances down at Lars’ boots. "The beer's good here."  
  
"Like the beer was good at the other place last night? And the night before? And the night before that?"  
  
"I like going out."  
  
"To the same places I go to."  
  
"Coincidence."  
  
"Right, yeah." Lars’ boots take a step forward. Lean legs shift weight to one side. "It's a fluke that we end up at the same parties, the same bars, the same fucking vicinities of people for Christ's sake." The sound of hands moving through hair crackles in the room. "What's next? You're going to follow me into the bathroom while I take a crap too?"   
  
"Are we done?" James meets Lars’ glare finally. "There's a fourth bottle of Bud and a bowl of peanuts waiting for me at the bar."  
  
"Too fucking bad, the Bud and the peanuts can wait for all I care." Lars crouches down onto the balls of his feet, his arms resting on his thighs. His demeanor changes when he rests his splays his fingers apart, his face losing that cold edge. "This isn't you, James. I know you too well."  
  
James opens his mouth, but he clamps it shut. He sways his attention back to the floor, suddenly desperate to stand up, shove Lars aside, bolt out the door and find the first hot chick to fuck. Or guy. Whatever appealed to him first.  
  
He wants to ask Lars why, all the whys in his mind. Why he doesn't bother speaking to him post-show anymore, why they always argue now instead of talk, why he's wearing a white jacket instead of the black one he bought for him in '84. Why are they tense, why can’t they hang out, why is Lars always partying,  _why is he doing this?_  
  
James wets his lips. He should say something already and go.  
  
Lars lifts his hands from James’ thighs.  
  
His mouth opens again, but he shuts it with a loud bite, teeth crunching teeth. He purses his lips and his body thrums with energy, with emotion. The need to stalk out or lash out grows so fast it throws him off balance.   
  
He clenches and unclenches his fists, nails digging into the palm.   
  
“I can’t—”  
  
A hand smooth from aloe touches the side of his cheek.   
  
Blue eyes meet green eyes.   
  
Lars rests his other hand on the other cheek. Warm palms press gently. He moves James’ head up and James allows the movement.   
  
He's on his knees now, between James’ legs. Strands of hair fall into Lars’ face, his parted lips, and his green eyes. Vodka breathes onto James’ chin, his skin. They're so close James can see the thick red-veined details of Lars’ bloodshot green eyes, and the telltale dark bags underneath.   
  
The hands on his cheeks stroke, massage, rub. The movements ease the burning tension away, unravels the coiled feelings in his stomach and chest.  
  
His long fingers slip into Lars’s hair until the inner webbings meet moose-and-conditioned edges.   
  
Lars’s throat bobs up and down, the vodka breath hitching.   
  
Blue eyes watch green eyes flutter as fingers comb once, twice.   
  
At the third go-around he grabs a chunk and pulls hard enough so their nose touch.   
  
Lars gasps over his lips.  
  
Their mouths meet to devour, and Lars tugs his head away.   
  
James sees clarity in those green eyes and he slams their lips together, bruising himself and Lars.   
  
All the resistances, thoughts, and doubts vanish. Lars responds eagerly, with inhibitions. Open mouths kiss, sloppy and wild. Pelvises grind; bodies tremble. They pant for breath, for breathers, their heaving chests and bobbing throats.   
  
Lars scrambles off the floor onto James’ lap, straddling him. Shaking hands leave hair and roam elsewhere—down leather exteriors, feathered edges of hair, warm skin.  
  
James keeps his lock on Lars’ lips as he delves his hands underneath the white jacket and slips it off over slender shoulders, shapely biceps and strong forearms. The monstrosity slides off, and he throws far away to the other side of the room. The fabric slaps against wall and James smiles into Lars’ mouth.   
  
He chuckles as Lars repeats the motion, gasps when Lars doesn't stop and moves his hands under his shirt, rough palms meeting soft stomach.   
They stop kissing to remove shirts. They lean forward and press bare chest to bare chest, their tongues meeting and teeth clinking.  
  
James slides his large hands down Lars’ warm back, sucking Lars’ tongue. He slips them underneath the jeans and grabs his ass hard and firm, bruising the soft flesh.   
  
Lars moans like a whore and puts his weight into James, over James.   
  
They topple backwards onto the bed.   
  
Shaking knees fall on other side of James’s body, hands anchored in James’ long hair. James moans in the kiss, tries to breathe and fails, as his large hands knead Lars’ ass. The jeans scrape his wrists; the tight heat leaves his palms sweaty. But he can’t stop.   
  
He slips a finger over Lars’ crack and presses hard.  
  
Lars rips his lips away to moan. “Fuck.”   
  
He bows his neck back and pants for air. James leans up and bites into the stretched skin hard.   
  
Lars shouts and James chuckles.  
  
He withdraws his hands and drags them along Lars’ waistline to his crotch. Lars sucks in his bottom lip when he zips him open and shoves the jeans over his thrusting hips.   
  
Fingers tease the hard on in the black briefs. Lars moans and breaks the kiss to speak, but James shuts him up with his tongue again. He palms his crotch a few times just to hear Lars whimper and feel Lars buck.   
  
He slides his hand away back to his ass. Long fingers slide under the black fabric to his hole.  
  
Two press down hard and rub firm.  
  
Lars shudders and gasps.   
  
James pulls back. “Did you lock the door?”  
  
“Don’t fucking care.”   
  
Lars swoops back down for a hard kiss. He takes a hand from James’ hair again and reaches back for James’ fingers.   
  
James forgets to breathe when Lars forces a finger inside.   
  
He doesn’t think. Lars shoves it in and keeps it there, rubbing his crotch into James’ stomach. He lets the hand go and pulls back, arching to a perfect C, smirking.   
  
“Yesss…”   
  
He thrusts his hips back onto James’ finger. James gasps.  
  
Lars looms above him. His shaking hands rest over James’ sweaty chest. Green eyes stare right through his skin. Lars licks his lips slow like a snake ready for the kill.   
  
"You wanna get in me?"   
  
He stares stupid.  
  
Lars squeezes himself around James’ finger. He moans and throws his head back when James grabs his ass hard.   
  
Hair falls into Lars’ eyes as he looks down again.  
  
"Wanna fuck me?" Lars groans, grinding his hips. "Wanna?"  
  
James manages a nod and the answer happens to fast, James has no chance to respond. Lars sinks his teeth into his lips and yanks his head up with hands pulling hair hard. He’s relentless, uncaring as he bruises and bleeds James’ lips, devouring his mouth like an animal. Blood flows in his mouth and James chokes on it, but he can’t stop kissing back.   
  
Lars jerks away. His snake eyes narrow as he hisses.   
  
"Earn your keep, motherfucker."  
  
Something snaps inside and James changes their positions in one swift move. He growls and hisses worse than Lars, takes the finger out of his ass and shoves it back in harder, his body pinning Lars down.  
  
He grips Lars’ jaw between thumb and index, bunching Lars’ red lips up, fingers denting the pale skin.   
  
His hand shakes Lars’ face as he squeezes hard.  
  
Fear lights Lars’ eyes.   
  
James smirks.   
  
"Work for yours too, bitch."  
  
He lets the jaw go for the chest. Nails rake down the sternum and Lars bows off the bed, back strung tight like taut string, neck wound, hips in the sky and head on the ground.   
  
Lars flops to the bed, panting. Red lines rise on the pale skin, in time with the hardening of nipples and the rise of gooseflesh.  
  
James laughs. “You slut.”  
  
He lifts his legs and removes the jeans and the briefs, throwing them to the ground like he did the jacket. He looms over to look into Lars’ empty green eyes.  
  
Legs open wide for him, knees on chest.   
  
James gapes.  
  
Lars throws his hands behind him, framing his head, and smirks.  
  
“Well?”   
  
James watches Lars roll his hips on the bed. His dick twitches painfully in his jeans.   
  
Lars licks his lips.  
  
“Since I’m a slut, then fuck me.”  
  
Hands slide away from the bed down the red welts on his sternum. Sharp nails dig in and self-inflict more. Lars arches and grins in pain.  
  
“Mm, what’s wrong? Don’t want it?”  
  
His eyes flutter close when he touches himself in one hand, the other to his ass—a finger sliding in deep.  
  
“Or… do you want to watch me?”  
  
He chuckles at James’ gasp.  
  
“Yeah, that’s what you like.”   
  
He slides the finger out of himself to his lips and sucks it in.  
  
James gets up and unzips himself, watching.  
  
Lars smiles around his finger. He pops it out and slides it back in. His hips jerk and his thighs tighten.   
  
“C’mon. Do something.” He tugs himself hard. “Fuck me.”  
  
James stands naked at the edge of the bed, staring. He leans down and grips those hips, eyes wide, gaping.  
  
Lars laughs. “Fuck the slut, Hetfield. Go on. It’s what you want.”  
  
Fingers bruise hips. Lars moans with a smile.   
  
He mounts the bed again, pushing Lars back to settle between his legs. His neck dips and lips meet hard cock.   
  
Green eyes flutter. Hands let go, slip away, and fall back to the bed, framing his head again.  
  
Blue eyes watch and wait over Lars’ quivering stomach.  
  
He bobs his head and sucks deep. Lars gasps and bucks. James keeps him planted firm to the bed.   
  
James smirks when Lars closes his eyes.  
  
He jackknives his head away and flips Lars over to his hands and knees. Whatever protests Lars has quickly die as James buries his mouth over his ass.  
  
His large hands hold Lars in place as he delves inside with his tongue and teeth. The hips jerk, shudder, buck in his hands, as he sucks, bites and delves deeper.   
  
Lars begs with his mewls, his whimpers and gasps. His upper torso flops to the bed, forearms planted down, fists shaking. He claws at the sheets, tearing them with his nails and his teeth.  
  
James sits up and sucks on his fingers of one hand. Lars’ hips buck up as he whines, writhing, needing more.   
  
He buries two wet fingers and smirks at the shriek it produces.   
  
They stay inside for a few moments, to tease; he moves them slow, to tease more. Lars whimpers and whines like a baby as he shakily leans up on his forearms, sweaty hair sticking to his back.   
  
“Please…” Lars looks over his shoulder. The green eyes look dead with want. “Fuck me.”  
  
James smirks and fucks him faster. “Tell me why.”  
  
“I’m a slut.”  
  
“Why are you a slut?”  
  
“You tell me— _Ah!_ ”  
  
James slaps his ass harder. “The truth, Lars.”  
  
Green eyes cloud over. “What—”  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
“I… I don’t…”  
  
Red clouds his vision. Before he can second-guess himself, he stops his fingers, snatches up Lars’ neck with his free hand and lifts him close.   
  
Lars’ lips form a word. ‘Stop.’  
  
Anger thrums his body. He’s not thinking rationally. But he’s been pushed too far for too long the entire night—the entire tour. All the clubs; all the sneaking around; all the small trysts he’s seen Lars do, that Lars thinks he’s not privy to.   
  
Lars chokes.  
  
James growls. “Tell. Me. The truth.”  
  
Lips struggle for words, for help.   
  
He doesn’t let go. He waits.   
  
Then, green eyes turn downcast.  
  
James lessens his grip. His chest hurts.   
  
Lars clears his throat, catching his breath.   
  
“I’ve been fucking Axl for some time now.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Green eyes widen and snap back at him.   
  
“ _You_  know why.”  
  
James loses his grip of Lars’ neck. He slips his fingers out of him. Guilt eats at his mind—guilt he forgot.   
  
“How?”  
  
Lars growls. “You think I didn’t know this whole time? You idiot. Why the fuck else would I do it?”  
  
“It was a long time ago,” James blurts out.   
  
“You still never told me! I had to find out from  _Mustaine himself!_ ” Lars turns around on his knees and shoves James back with all his strength. “You fucked him—and you’re  _still_  fucking him!”  
  
“Because you’re fucking  _him!_ ”  
  
“And you fucked him first!”  
  
“He’s the only one I’ve done, unlike you! You’ve probably sucked off the entire crew by now—ours  _and_  his! Who else don’t I know?”  
  
“You’re one to fucking talk! Who else do I have to talk to in order to get the truth, huh? At least you get it from me—because I’m not so much of a chicken shit to hide from you!”  
  
“And when the hell were you going to tell me, huh? When I caught you two fucking in our bed?”  
  
Lars laughs. “That would’ve been perfect, really. Since I caught you and him doing that to me.”  
  
“That was  _nine years_  ago Lars! We were drunk and didn’t know what we were doing—”  
  
“Same story, different guy.” Lars shakes his head. “I’m done. Stay the fuck away from me. Stop following me around. I don’t want to be around you anymore.”  
  
James’ hands fly out and grab Lars’ wrist. “No.”  
  
He jerks them in James’ grasp. “Fuck you. Let me go.”  
  
“You’re not leaving.”  
  
Lars jerks them again. “Stop it—”  
  
“You’re not leaving the band.”  
  
Green eyes widen. “James—”  
  
James growls and yanks Lars forward.  
  
“And you’re not leaving me.”  
  
He quiets Lars with his lips and his body; pins Lars down to the bed as his hands slide between their bodies and grasp him firm. Legs spread again for him, hooking over his hips. Arms wind around his shoulders. Moans bleed into his mouth again and James gets drunk on the sensations.   
  
Things blur, come in and out of focus, like what happened before was a dream; like James hit the undo button and they went back to how it was—like James never fucked that guy, like Lars hasn’t been fucking that guy. He places Lars on his hands and knees again, slides his mouth back over Lars’ ass and fingers him, licks him, sucks and tastes and takes all that’s his and Lars lets him have it all, because he wants him to.  
  
A loud groan slips from his wet lips as he thrusts inside Lars, hands sliding up the marred back. Lars bows his neck between his trembling forearms and bucks into him.   
  
They set the rhythm together, like they used to. It starts too awkward, too raw, Lars scared, James worried. But they settle back into a pattern missed and welcomed and the fear disappears.  
  
His balls slap against Lars’ ass as he picks up speed. Lars twists the sheets in his fingers and gasps, bucks, pleas for more without the words. Their hands meet over Lars’ cock when James slides his chest over Lars’ back and they beat it together.   
  
James pants into Lars’ ear. “Is it like this when he fucks you? Does he make you feel this way?”   
  
Lars shakes his head no.   
  
He licks the lobe. “Are you mine, or his?”  
  
“Yours,” Lars gasps.  
  
“Louder.”  
  
Lars bows his neck back. Sweat slicks his face. James slides his nose on his heated skin.   
  
“Yours,” he whimpers. “Yours James, always yours.”  
  
James grasps Lars’ chin in his sweaty hand.   
  
Their lips collide without teeth and tongue.   
  
“Yours,” James whispers. “Yours too.”  
  
Lars moans from deep in his belly and rolls his neck back, to the side, coming into their hands. James grunts and leans his neck forward, coming into him. Their necks cradle, their parted lips and wet noses on hot skin.  
  
James lets go of his chin, slides the sticky hand up and pulls them into a kneeling position. He keeps his hands on Lars’ chest, planting him there, the heartbeat pounding fast underneath his palm. Lars leans against him as he catches his breath.   
  
Guilt sucker-punches James, washing away the afterglow before he can enjoy it. He squeezes his eyes tight as he winds his arms tight around Lars’ torso and buries his face into Lars’ sweaty neck. His breathing stumbles.   
  
Lars slips a trembling hand into his hair and presses James closer.  
  
“Can we stop this?” James mumbles into his skin.  
  
Lars lays the other hand over James’ arms.   
  
“Do you promise?”  
  
James nods yes.   
  
Lars sighs and relaxes.   
  
“Okay.”  
  
He pulls out. Lars makes a small noise. They lay back on the bed side by side, arms thrown over waists. Lars scoots close and rests his cheek on James’ broad chest; James tucks him underneath his chin, leaving his hand behind Lars’ head.  
  
“We should get dressed,” Lars whispers a few minutes later. “I really don’t think I locked that door.”  
  
James chuckles. “If they haven’t come through now…”  
  
Lars smiles. “I know. But still. Who knows who will come in.”  
  
“In a little while.” James closes his eyes and winds his arm tighter around Lars. “I’m not ready yet.”  
  
“We  _do_  have a hotel room…”  
  
“A minute.”  
  
“Mm… okay, fine.”  
  
James glances over Lars and notices the white jacket in the far corner, where he threw it earlier. He glares at the crumpled fabric like it’s cursed and tucks his Lars closer. Sooner or later, he’s going to burn that motherfucker.  
  
He closes his eyes and kisses the top of Lars’ head.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Lars slides his hand up James’ stomach to the middle of his chest and leaves it there, over his heart. “Ditto.”  
  
Downstairs the beat pounds a rhythm and a riff. There are Barbies and Kens waiting for them outside, ready to pounce, but James doesn’t care. He got what he came for.


End file.
